It had been three years since Westerberg. Three long years of trying to forget. I was in college now, a fresh chapter that came with its own set of problems. I sat in the back corner of the cafeteria, picking apart my apple with slow, deliberate bites. From here, I could see everything—every clique, every smug face that reminded me too much of the ones I left behind.

The jocks were clustered in their usual spot, talking loud enough for the whole room to hear, their laughter booming across the crowded space like they owned it. And then there were the off-brand Heathers, a less polished version of the ones I used to know, but just as insufferable. Their laughter rang just as hollow, just as self-assured.

I rolled my eyes without meaning to. It was the same act, just a different stage. They were all so convinced of their own superiority, like the world owed them something simply because their parents could afford to sweep their mistakes under the rug. It made me sick.

I took another bite of my apple, crunching through the silence of my own thoughts, and then it happened. Our eyes locked. For just a moment, the noise of the cafeteria faded into the background. Everything around me went still.

I want that one.